


Nothing Satisfies Me But Your Soul

by fadedhues



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Demon!Stiles, Kat writes at midnight!, M/M, outsider pov
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-27
Updated: 2012-12-27
Packaged: 2017-11-22 14:39:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/610917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fadedhues/pseuds/fadedhues
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“My name is Death,” he sings softly, and it’s fucking pretty, like he’s singing a lullaby to the winter sky, “and the end is here.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nothing Satisfies Me But Your Soul

**Author's Note:**

> Well, I was listening to "O' Death" from Supernatural, and I read this fic that was GLORIOUS, and then tumblr and more of O' Death, and, well, here you are. Set from an original character's POV. Reviews are nice! Grand, actually!
> 
> This is what happens when tumblr starts shutting down randomly and I have to find other stuff to do.
> 
> This is unbeta'd, so any mistakes are my b.
> 
> **GUYS, [BEE](http://witch--born.tumblr.com/post/38971866798/scanned-version-of-my-art-for-fadedhues-fic) DREW SOMETHING FOR THIS, LOVELY PERSON THAT SHE IS!

“You,” the man points his forefinger at him, “stay away from that place,” finger shaking, lips trembling.

He laughs. “Come on, old man.” He raises the pint to his lips; takes a sip. “Beacon Hills can’t be that dangerous.”

The man leans forward. “Listen here, son. You came here because you wanted information on the weird, the unnatural, and then you ask about Beacon Hills. I know what you’re up to.”

“Do you, now?” he asks wryly, taking a look around. He had been told to come to this bar, to talk to the owner—Mr. Kent knows stuff, she had assured him.

The man looks angry and spits, “You’ve been put to a test, haven’t you?”

It’s true. His boss had looked at him and said, “You want to be one of us? Officially?”

God, yes, how he wants it, and he told his boss as much.

“Go to Beacon Hills, then. Kill the Alpha. Then, my friend,” his boss smiled at him and put a hand on his shoulder, “then you will be one of us.”

Mr. Kent takes his silence with a nod.

“So what if I have?” he asks with a shrug. “It’s just an Alpha. I’ve hunted plenty of them before.”

The man grins, now, chuckles, like he’s said something funny.

He feels a spike of anger.

“Then why, pray tell,” Mr. Kent drawls, picking up a rag, “is your test killing this Alpha? You know, if you’ve killed _plenty_ before.” He starts wiping off the counter.

The question takes him slightly off balance. “I—I don’t.” He doesn’t care, it’s just a fucking werewolf.

“Shut up,” Mr. Kent says sharply, and he snaps his mouth shut. “Don’t. Go.”

Oh, hell no. He wants this; he _needs_ this chance. “Fuck you, gramps,” he spits.

Mr. Kent laughs. “‘Gramps’? That the best you got, _boy_?”

He leans back in his seat and nurses his beer as Mr. Kent continues to clean off the large counter. “Fine, then,” he finally says. “Tell me why I shouldn’t.”

Mr. Kent pales now; throws his rag onto the counter and walks back over. He purses his lips and picks at his collar. “Tell me what you know about who you’re hunting.”

What _I’m hunting, you mean_ , he thinks. _Werewolves aren’t people. They’re monsters_. “Hale kid; formed a pack after his family burned in a fire. Had a crazy uncle that disappeared and came back. He runs with them now. He has a _pack_ ,” the word burns, makes him angry, because these are _monsters_. Monsters like the monster that killed his little brother all those years ago.

It’s why he’s a Hunter. For his little brother, for revenge.

He continues, “A pack of miscreant teenagers. He’s young. Lost.” He grins, feral. “Vulnerable.”

“Oh, son,” the man murmurs, “you’ve got no damn idea, do you?”

He loses his grin. “What?”

Mr. Kent reaches out and plucks the beer from his grasp. He sets it off to the side and leans onto his elbow. “You’re chasing death, dear son.”

“Stop talking riddles and fucking tell me already.” This is such bullshit. This crazy man probably doesn’t know anything.

The man ignores his glares. “The Alpha. He has humans in his pack.”

“Yes, I know, old man. What a dumbass move. Humans are weak.”

“Shut _up_ ,” Mr. Kent snarls.

He stops. And waits.

“One of the humans. He’s—he’s different. Some say he’s a different kind of monster. Some say he’s just a really fucked up human, messed up,” Mr. Kent touches his finger to his temple, “by the things he’s seen and done, thanks to his pack.”

“ _His_ pack?” he echoes, because the words don’t sound right; it’s the Alpha’s.

“I told you to shut up.”

He tightens his lips and says nothing.

Mr. Kent whispers, “But there are two things we know about the boy. One,” he holds a finger up, “that he is with the Alpha.”

“With? As in, mates? That’s sick,” he almost says, but keeps his mouth firmly shut.

Mr. Kent has is eyebrows raised, as if waiting for his outburst. When he is sure that he can continue, he says, “And two.” He raises another finger. “He’s _feral_.”

“A wild boy?” he scoffs, laughing, and this time, the man doesn’t snap at him.

“They call him Death.”

“He’s just some kid.”

“Death comes in many shapes,” Mr. Kent warns. “I’m telling you, boy. If you know what’s good for you, you’d stay away. Go back home.”

“How far away?”

The man sighs and rubs his head. “Three hours. Give me a number, kid, so I can call someone and tell them to put an obituary up.”

“Whatever,” he scoffs. “Hey, when I come back here in two days, I expect a free beer.” He hops off the bar stool and pulls his keys from his pocket. “Thanks for the information, old man.”

“Foolish boy,” he hears the man whisper as he leaves.

Fuck him. He’ll show him; he’ll come back with blood on his hands and a smile on his face.

He spends the first few hours in Beacon Hills tracking them, watching them. The pack.

“Foolish kids,” he whispers to himself, thinking of the old man and all his warnings.

He gets him the next day. The Hale kid, bleeding and dirty at his feet. “I thought Alphas were supposed to be wise and cunning,” he sneers, gripping his knife, and this is his favorite part. He likes to make them scream, likes to make them hurt and bleed and _beg_ , beg until he kills them.

“Hey, jackass,” he hears, and turns around. There’s the boy—the one who had been holding hands with the Alpha. The mate.

“Come to say goodbye?” he asks, because this is great—an Alpha and a mate, he’ll be a hero when he gets home.

“Not quite,” the boy sneers, and then there are inky black spots in his vision, and he can’t—he can’t breathe, can’t see anything.

He feels something hit him in the center of his chest, and he falls back, powerless, weapons flying from his hands.

The boy is suddenly above him. He grins, and it’s—he understands now, what the man said—his smile is controlled, wide, creepy. It’s not a wolfish grin, just lips pulled back—it’s a smile, a real smile.

He watches as the boy’s eyes fill up with just black, black like the way the blood of his prey looks on the ground, black like the hair of the werewolf he had seen kill his brother, black and hard and _cold_.

The boy reaches out, like he’s going to pet him, and when the boy’s hand touches his head, it feels like his head is going to burst, everything is hot and cold and _pounding_ , like the ink of his eyes are filling up his head, squeezing his brain.

He screams, he thinks—yes, that’s him, he screams, and it rips through the night.

The boy pulls his hand away, and it’s an instant rip away from the pain. He gasps and chokes out, “Who are you?”

The boy laughs now, and it’s creepy, God, it’s creepy. It’s almost maniacal, but it’s—it’s controlled, it’s loud and mocking. “My name is Death,” he sings softly, and it’s fucking _pretty_ , like he’s singing a lullaby to the winter sky, “and the end is here.”

And that is the story of how Alexander Helms finally met his end—at the hand of a beautiful boy called Death and the Alpha who courted him.


End file.
